Existentialism With Chocolate
by AnbarElectrum
Summary: Atlas is cold. Oscar wants cocoa. Unfortunately, he's the one person on Remnant for whom that statement is a loaded one, and, well. Turns out part of that like-minded soul deal was a predisposition towards brooding. And for better or worse, he's got his mind all to himself for now. One-shot, set after A New Approach (Vol. 7 Ch. 2).


**_A/N: This one's _****technically _roughly set during _Pomp and Circumstance_ (V7C4) but does not spoil that episode or the one before it! Really, it fits anywhere that Oscar could conceivably be alone and offscreen following _A New Approach_ (V7C2). Fair warning, Ironwood and Ozpin aren't actually _in _this story; it's just Oscar, but a lot of his thoughts revolve around those two, to the point where their inclusion in character tags seemed appropriate._**

**_This can be read in continuity with my Vol. 6 Oscar-centric story _****Crashing Down_ or as a standalone. Speaking of my fics, which I suppose I've been doing literally this whole time, I have a Ruby-centric one-shot that will be up this coming weekend once V7C4 is available to non-First viewers, so if you like this or any of my other_ RWBY _fics, please consider keeping an eye out for it!_**

**_And on that shameless piece of self-promotion, enjoy! I'm terrible about responding to reviews, but I do very much like getting feedback, should you be so inclined._**

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Oscar looks out on the snow-swept rooftops of Atlas and once again has to suppress a sudden craving for hot chocolate.

He feels a little resentful and a little guilty, because he's a fourteen-year-old boy wintering in the coldest viable settlement on Remnant's surface (slightly above it, actually) and damn it, there's no reason he _shouldn't_ want a nice cup of cocoa. On the other hand, he's been jonesing for this particular cup with a ferocity that reminds him of the way Qrow looks at his flask these days, now that he's trying to curb his drinking. Sugary things in general have seemed unusually alluring to him lately. And maybe it's just because, again, he's fourteen and he likes candy.

But he's been noticing other things, and here his shiny new guilt complex comes into play. Things like how at this very moment, gazing out a window, he's fallen thoughtlessly into parade rest, shoulders squared, feet apart, head high, hands clasped neatly behind him. Or how sometimes after a battle or a sparring session, he doesn't immediately collapse the Long Memory into its handle but instead twirls it in his grip, plants the end of it firmly on the ground and braces both hands on the pommel. He's even caught himself walking a few paces with it before, slipping easily into a measured and nigh-soundless gait that never seems to carry him as quickly as it should. His legs are much shorter than those of the man whose stride he's unconsciously mimicking.

Ironwood's office had been a special kind of hell. Oscar had known the titles of every book on every shelf of that office before he'd even seen them. He'd known how to work the controls for the shutters, how to call up the holoterminal. He'd known which desk-drawer James hid his whiskey in, could guess which distillery it came from, and if he's guessed right then he also knows what it had cost and how it would taste. Which would be fine, if he'd

A) ever been to Atlas,

B) ever worked the Atlas Headmaster's holoterminal, and

C) ever had a drop of alcohol in his young life.

Which he hasn't! ...Well, alright, he's _been to Atlas,_ in the sense that he is presently visiting Atlas for the very first time. He'd been in the city for all of twenty minutes by the time he'd walked into that room, half-hoping and half-fearing that the General had already looked through their confiscated weaponry, found that damned cane, and worked out the reason for Oscar's presence on his own. Clearly, though, the AceOps hadn't mentioned they'd taken one weapon apiece off their erstwhile captives; Ironwood must have assumed both Harbinger and the Long Memory had been in Qrow's possession, as well they should have been if Ozpin hadn't been so unusually quick to awaken within Oscar's psyche.

Then again, Ironwood had clearly taken the time to review the footage from their fight with those Sabyrs in Mantle. Had he seriously failed to notice the boy wielding Ozpin's weapon with Ozpin's own fighting style? He was even wearing _green._ For crying out loud, his name was _Oscar Pine;_ the association was so obvious Oscar himself had occasionally wondered if the Curse of the Elder was somehow sentient and had chosen him just for the sake of history's lamest pun.

Regardless of why, Ironwood hadn't known, and the hope in his eyes when Qrow had explained who Oscar was had been heartbreaking. The sheer incredulous relief he'd fit into one syllable, that _"Oz?"_ had been even worse. He prefers not to think about the eerie sense of déjà vu as Ironwood knelt down to meet his eyes. There's a small part of Oscar that's distressingly accustomed to people kneeling before him. Ozpin had been a king in at least two lifetimes Oscar knows of, and the second occasion hadn't been even a full century ago. But even as it's familiar, it's also jarring, because no one had knelt to Ozpin since the last of the Warrior King's knights had passed away. And because Ironwood was only kneeling on account of Oscar's stature, and Oscar is very sure James shouldn't tower over him as he does when he stands. They're the same height almost down to the millimetre, have been for decades—except they aren't, because Ironwood is a hair over 6'6" and Oscar is...not. Nor has he in fact been _alive _for decades, plural.

Up close, he could see how dark and heavy the circles beneath Ironwood's eyes have become, see the spiderweb of red veins creeping inwards over his sclerae towards deep blue irises. As is increasingly common, two sets of instincts rise in him simultaneously: the urge to flinch away, hastily inform the general of Ozpin's absence, and spare himself the awkwardness of further interaction with yet another stranger who is apparently kill-and-die loyal to him is what ultimately wins out. The desire to lean forward, rest a hand on his shoulder and reassure the poor man had still been alarmingly strong.

But Oscar would never do that, especially not to a man he'd just met, _especially _not when that man is the most powerful person in what is currently the most powerful nation in Remnant, and he _needs _to be Oscar right now in every way possible. The limited degree to which he can be Ozpin isn't helpful enough to be worth the trade-off of losing both himself and his place in his companions' regard. The fact that more and more he can't _help_ but be Ozpin, if only in little ways, is unsettling enough when he lets himself think about it. Which he mostly doesn't—he's getting better at this not-dwelling thing!—except when he steps outside himself long enough to notice the warning signs.

Like really, _really_ wanting a mug of hot chocolate. _Ugh._ Can Ozpin really have this much of a sweet tooth, or is it some kind of addiction displacement thing, or what? It's driving him more than a little crazy; caffeine addiction is one thing and pretty well universal among the circles he now moves in, but a mocha doesn't sound like it's going to even take the edge off. Maybe Ironwood keeps some of his preferred blend around. If the safe house in Mistral had some in stock, why wouldn't Ozpin's closest neighbouring Huntsman Academy hold a little in reserve for him as well?

Oscar perks up at the thought. Then he slumps. He can't just ask the kitchen staff if they know where they keep any expensive drinking chocolate such as might once have been consumed by a certain highly eccentric and very dead Headmaster of Beacon. He's not even sure how he'd phrase the question to keep from sounding insane. And he doesn't have access to the faculty lounge, which is where he'd expect to find any stash Ozpin had personally squirrelled away—though he does know where said lounge _is,_ despite it not having been part of Penny's exhaustive tour. So if he chooses to give into the craving, that means his only option is talking to General Ironwood. Which he's been trying very hard to avoid, partly because he's sure Ironwood's a little disappointed he isn't fully Ozpin, partly because he doesn't trust himself to maintain Ruby's lie about what's happened to Ozpin, and partly—mostly, as long as he's being honest with himself—because he's very afraid he won't be able to keep himself from calling the man by his first name.

Possibly with a cordially pretentious little 'my dear' in front of it.

'Sir' had felt wrong from the first time he said it; 'General' tugged free a sense that he was about to be gently chided for using a title instead of a name. 'Ironwood' is the compromise he'd ultimately settled on, to the man's visible amusement, but 'James' keeps threatening to slip out. The fact that Ironwood probably wouldn't care if it did doesn't lessen his apprehension in the slightest. Nor does the knowledge that as a student, Ironwood himself had once possessed a tendency to trip over his words just as Oscar had done in their rollercoaster of a first meeting, because that just highlights how odd it is that Oscar can remember things that happened before he was born.

_I miss Maria,_ Oscar thinks abruptly. Maria has a way of taking the bizarre in stride that he finds surprisingly comforting. Maria is also the only person he knows at all well—and that it takes mere weeks for him to latch onto someone so strongly anymore says something—who doesn't take anything and everything to do with Ozpin very, _very_ personally. She'd tell Oscar he was being a very clever idiot and overthinking things again, and she'd be right. Oscar's a champion over-thinker these days, especially in Ozpin's absence. Ozpin knew how to snap Oscar out of these spirals, and for a brief, guilty moment Oscar misses him. Unnerving as it was to have a whole other person inside his head, Ozpin's presence had grown familiar in time, and Oscar has precious little familiarity remaining in which to take comfort.

That he's making this whole cocoa situation more complicated than it needs to be doesn't change how bizarrely complicated it actually is. He has a sinking feeling that if, after all the effort he's put into reminding everyone that he's not really Ozpin, Yang or Jaune or Qrow walks in and sees him all in green, the Long Memory at his side and a mug of hot chocolate at his lips, it's going to stir up some unpleasantness. Maybe not overtly—but Oscar doesn't think he can take seeing the suspicion return to their eyes, phantom memories of pain blossoming in his cheek and the back of his skull and down his spine at just the thought of returning to those too-recent days of fear and guilt and loneliness.

Not for the first time, he wonders why he thought green combat gear was a good plan. Sure, his Aura is a deep bottle-green and his name is Pine and so convention dictates he colour-code green, but it isn't actually a requirement. He doesn't _have_ to clothe himself in Ozpin's signature colour. He certainly never had before Argus. But the browns and off-whites and burnt oranges of before the Fall and the voice and the memories and the secrets and—

_Stop, _Oscar reminds himself. _Breathe._

The colours of _Before_ didn't feel right anymore, just as his comfortable old civilian's clothes had begun to feel wrong on his frame once he'd settled into his new role as a de facto Huntsman. Just as his attempts to design an emblem keep devolving into doodles of spiky circles that more and more resemble gears—or, on one memorable occasion when his distracted mind had drifted a little too far, a picture-perfect 1:1 drafting sketch of the Long Memory's clockwork innards. Because of course it isn't enough that Ozpin is a wizard. He has to be an engineer, too.

So Oscar has resigned himself to certain things, like his newfound penchant for all things green or the combat reflexes that he just sort of _has_ now, like the fact that he's already too used to Ozpin's emblem to adopt a new one, that sometimes he hears the name 'Oz' and nearly responds. Because while these may be worrying precursors of deeper change to come, on their own, they're harmless or even beneficial.

Harmless, Oscar realises with a sigh, like a craving for hot chocolate.

"Thinking too much," he mutters, shaking his head, glimpsing his barely-there reflection in the window doing the same. "You're being ridiculous, old man."

He freezes, thinks about what he's said. He contemplates correcting himself for the benefit of the empty room, and ultimately doesn't. There isn't much sense in lying to himself. Instead, he sets off at a brisk walk for the faculty lounge. He still can't bring himself to share some one-on-one time with Ironwood, but he's willing to bet that somewhere over the millennia he's learned a thing or two about opening doors he isn't meant to open, even ones with fancy Atlesian key-card locks. Might as well put some of that second-hand muscle memory to work.

_I wonder if I know any lock-picking spells…_


End file.
